by A. M. Manay
The words broke through her shock, and she stood, heart now thumping in barely concealed panic. She managed to make her way to the open space in front of the dais, legs moving of their own accord. With the distinct feeling that her body was not her own, she curtsied deeply, then walked swiftly toward the band. Titters and whispers spread through the crowd, rustling like animals in the underbrush. Open derision followed, and her ears flushed scarlet. She tried to block out their words. She’d heard them all before.
I should have drunk more wine. A lot more.
At last, she stood before the band. “Please tell me one of you is from the Teeth,” she begged the musicians.
“Ye're in luck, lass,” the fiddler replied. His gaze fell on her stump. “Well, not that much luck.”
“Do you know ‘Honeysuckle Creek’?” she asked desperately.
The man smiled, eyes crinkling. “Could play that in me sleep,” he affirmed. “Follow me, boys. Here's the count . . .”
The girl made her way back to the center, bowing deeply once again, and the music began. A calm fell over Shiloh when the familiar first notes rang out. Her cheeks blushing pinker than her hair, she drew in a deep breath and forced herself to raise her head high, avoiding all eye contact, willing the cruel faces into one long blur. Grabbing her full skirt with her hand and drawing the fabric away from her shoes, wishing for her old knee skirts and proper boots, she began clogging. The sound of her hard heels on the marble floor kept perfect rhythm with the band, even as the pattern of the traditional steps grew more complex and the musicians increased the pace. Eventually, she was a whirl of sound and movement, and some of those watching began to keep time, clapping and stomping, the laughter now turned from scornful to delighted.
Beginning to grow weary as the song spun on, Shiloh sought escape. She caught sight of the jester, danced over to him, grabbed him by the hand, and dragged him out into the middle of the floor, to much applause from the assembled. The fool grinned gamely and imitated her steps with intentional clumsiness, much to the crowd’s amusement. As they whirled around one another, she mouthed to him, “Get me out of here. I beg of you.”
To her intense relief, the man understood and had mercy upon her. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, snatched her up, and threw her over his shoulder, then raced out of the hall to fountains of laughter. Shiloh caught a brief glimpse of the queen’s narrowed eyes, then closed her own in relief. The jester gently set her down once they came to an alcove off of the main corridor, well out of sight of the door to the Great Hall.
“Thank you most sincerely,” she panted, leaning against the stone walls and battling her corset for breath.
“Glad to be of service,” he replied, bowing smartly, setting the bells on his hat to tinkling. Up close, the slight man looked older than she'd expected based on his acrobatic antics in the hall. Grey hair peeked out from beneath his multicolored cap, and smile lines carved deep grooves in his clean-shaven face.
“What's your name?” she asked. She pressed her hand to her chest. “I'm Shiloh.”
“Verjell,” he replied. “Well met.” She nodded a return to his greeting.
The crisis now passed, the adrenaline overcame her, and Shiloh realized that she was shaking from head to toe. Her eyes grew hot with unshed tears.
“Now, now, don't you mind the queen, Shiloh,” Verjell said. “You couldn't have handled that better. Her grace'll move on to weaker prey now you’ve left her unsatisfied.”
“I don't know why I'm crying,” she scolded herself. “It's not as though folks were nice to me back home, either.” She swiped angrily at a tear that escaped and began sneaking its way down her cheek.
“I imagine it’s different when it's your queen trying to humiliate you in front of hundreds of noblemen instead of some illiterate goatherd with webbed feet,” the jester countered. “You did splendidly.”
“He's right, you know,” Hatch agreed, appearing behind the court fool’s shoulder.
Shiloh closed her eyes and sighed. Could the man not give her a moment's peace?
“Thank you, Verjell. That will be all,” Silas added. The jester gave Shiloh a wink and disappeared around the corner.
“Walk with me,” Hatch ordered. He turned and devoured the hallway with quick strides, not bothering to look back to see if she followed. Shiloh shook her head and hurried to catch up to him on her exhausted legs.
At last, they arrived at a black door bearing a plaque that read: “Chief Minister.” Guards stood on either side. Shiloh realized that one of them was Gil only when he snuck her a wink. Her having saved his life in the snow had evidently proved sufficient to change the grizzled old soldier’s opinion of abominations.
They passed through a large receiving room and into Hatch’s private study. Velvet and leather dueled for supremacy, and the burgundy carpet was so deep she feared she would lose a shoe.
“Please, sit,” Hatch instructed.
Shiloh perched uncertainly on the edge of the chair, grateful to rest her legs but wishing to be anywhere but there. Not anywhere, she admitted to herself. Home. She wished she were in Edmun’s house, his herbs hanging above her head, surrounded by his books and his muttering and his protection and his cranky genius. Hatch poured a goblet of wine and pushed it toward her. She took several grateful swallows.
“Are you going to live?” he asked drily.
“I’ll be fine. It was just . . . I don’t understand why she would want to . . . I’m no one. Why bother to torment me?” she asked.
A laugh tried to escape through Hatch’s nose. “A question that has often vexed me with respect to her grace. But there is little profit and much danger in questioning our betters,” he cautioned.
Shiloh nodded but remained unsatisfied. She could understand why her neighbors back home might lash out at her. Their lives were a constant struggle, marked by one heartbreak after another, buoyed only by religion and superstition. But a queen? A woman who has never gone hungry or cold in her life? Why should she bully a cripple?
“You did well,” Hatch proclaimed. “You showed the proper respect, and you kept your chin up. You showed no weakness. Weakness at court is like blood in the water. And employing Verjell was inspired. Very clever. Showed you don’t put on airs above your station and took some of the focus off of you. No one can complain about your conduct.” He looked at her expectantly, but she made no grateful reply to his praise. At last, he continued, “I have something for you.”
Hatch placed a wooden case on his desk and pried off the lid. Shiloh looked down to find a prosthetic hook—though not the one her father had made her. This one was carved from ivory, engraved with tiny, intricate vines and flowers, and attached to a golden hilt similarly embellished. The leather straps were dyed a rich forest green that matched her wand’s belt, and they fastened with golden buckles. She reached out a single finger to touch the leather. It was soft as a rose petal.
“It's lovely,” she whispered.
It was beautiful, but it was not hers. Her sorrow must have shown on her face, for Hatch hastened to apologize. “I am sorry, but I cannot allow you to wear your steel hook. It wouldn't be safe, for you or for anyone else. That steel was not made to channel magic properly, the way your wand was. It is too likely to cause . . . additional accidents.”
Shiloh swallowed the lump in her throat. “May I at least have it back? Not to wear or carry, just to keep, to remember my father by?” she asked, holding her face carefully blank but unable to keep all of the pleading out of her voice. “He made it for me.”
After a moment of contemplation, he nodded. “I'll have it sent down.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”
Hatch smiled ruefully. “That is not the general opinion of my character. Nor is it, I suspect, always your own.”
She looked down at her knees, clad in the silk dress Hatch had obtained for her. “I suppose I should not expect much kindness around here. And I ought to do
a better job of appreciating it when I find it.”
“I find it best to expect cruelty and to find kindness a pleasant surprise,” Hatch advised, walking around his desk to help her to her feet. “And to be sure to remember well the sources of both.”
Chapter 6
Your Side
“What’s going on, Headmaster?” a teenaged Silas demanded, running across a muddy courtyard to catch up with Edmun. He stumbled over a loose stone in the dim light.
“Go back to bed,” the headmaster ordered. His hair was wild and his voice low. “You’ll be safer there.”
“I wasn’t in bed. I was studying, and I heard raised voices. What’s wrong? Where are you going in the dead of night? It’s going to rain again before dawn,” the boy replied, solemn-faced and undeterred.
Edmun wheeled on him. “I’m going to serve my rightful queen,” he hissed. “Before Rischar has her locked away, along with whomever he suspects loves her more than they do him. My father has just breathed his last.”
“King Jerroh is dead?” Silas replied, shocked. “But how?” He caught himself. “I’m sorry, Headmaster. I should be offering condolences, not asking questions.”
Edmun brushed off his student’s sympathy. “How? Poison, I suspect. The illness was swift and merciless. My grief is of no consequence. The fight for succession will begin before the body is cold. Rischar and Mirin will not let the throne slip through their grasping fingers, regardless of our father’s stated wishes or our sister’s elder status. Nor will Alissa simply step aside. She knows our baby brother isn’t fit to rule, and that the throne is hers by law, female though she is.”
“You think there will be a war?” Silas asked, eyes wide.
“I think it’s already started,” Edmun replied, roughly grabbing the child by the arm. “So, you need to either go back to bed and keep your head down and your mouth shut, my most dear boy, and hope to heaven that Prince Rischar hasn’t noticed your considerable talents. Or you need to decide whose side you’re on and gird your loins. I have to go. Now.”
Silas looked up into his beloved tutor’s face. A calm came over him.
“Your side. I’m on your side.”
***
Dawn came as a mercy after a night of fitful sleep. Upset by the queen’s mockery and anxious about her first day of class, Shiloh had awoken several times from vivid nightmares, grateful she hadn't screamed aloud. When Jane arrived with her breakfast, Shiloh was already out of her nightdress and into her linen and was trying on her new hook. It fit perfectly. She supposed Hatch had used her old one for measurements. The man had a way with details.
Jane’s practiced hands soon had Shiloh in her corset and gown, and she sat at her desk to eat.
“Here is your schedule, miss, and directions to Brother Jonn’s study,” Jane said, handing her a piece of paper and a small box she pulled from her apron pocket.
“Thank you,” Shiloh replied, glancing over the page to see that the afternoon would find her working in the library. She opened the box and discovered her old prosthetic, or, rather, the steel hook all by itself. She realized that Hatch’s craftsman must have taken the harness apart for measurements in order to fabricate her new one. He sent it ahead while we were on the road. Reverently, she placed her father’s work on the altar of the prayer cupboard that had appeared in her room the previous afternoon. She’d have to find something of Edmun’s to join it.
Be with me today, Da, she pled silently. Look after me, Master Edmun. For I have no friends in this strange place.
***
Shiloh was, naturally, the first to arrive for Master Jonn’s tutorial. Tentatively, she pushed open the door to find a shabbily cozy office. A fireplace surrounded by a handful of upholstered chairs dominated the room; a desk piled high with books and papers stood opposite the hearth.
A set of open double doors separated the office from a large laboratory. The sight of it stole Shiloh’s breath. Six rows of work benches filled the well-lit space. Potions in progress dominated one bench, bubbling in elaborate contraptions of glass, while other tables bowed beneath the weight of various plants and captive creatures. Some of the plants Shiloh recognized as medicinal. Others appeared to be crop samples afflicted with various blights. A young man—Shiloh assumed him to be Master Jonn—peered down at a cage full of rodents, a water wand in his hand and a magnifying glass held to his eye. She fairly itched to examine it all.
The door behind her creaked, and Shiloh turned to see two other girls enter. One had kind eyes and gave her a hesitant half-smile, but the other kept her nose firmly in the air. They both took chairs near the fire. Shiloh followed their example but kept her distance, choosing a seat across from the pair.
“Ah, we’re all here,” Master Jonn declared, stepping in from the laboratory and closing the doors behind him. “Let’s get started. We have a new student joining us.” He looked down at one of the papers on his desk. “I’m Jonn Gateborn. Shiloh Teethborn, is it?” he asked, his smile warm and welcoming. “Silas mentioned you to me.”
“Yes, Master,” she replied, nodding her head in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Ladies?” Master Jonn prompted. “Shall we introduce ourselves?”
“I’m Penn Warwick,” the kind one offered. The other girl said nothing, and a long-suffering expression came over Jonn’s face. Penn broke the awkward silence by adding, “And this is Lady Hana Vale, Lord Speckley’s eldest daughter.”
Jonn took the seat between Shiloh and Penn. “Now, Shiloh won’t have done the reading for today, but how did the two of you find the new article on Kirshan’s Hex?”
“Is it the one by Fergoss, from the university in Vreeland?” Shiloh asked, eyes brightening.
Jonn smiled. “Why, yes, it is. Have you read it?”
“Yes, Master,” she replied. “My teacher subscribed to their journal. I found it fascinating.” She was overcome with self-consciousness when Penn shot her an impressed look and Hana rolled her eyes.
“I found it dull as dishwater,” Hana declared.
“Of course you did,” Jonn sighed.
“Well, I’m not likely ever to be on a battlefield, am I?” Hana shot back.
“No, not likely, my lady,” Jonn allowed with a shake of his head. “Penn, why don’t you share your thoughts? How did you find his argument on the alternative use of Comfort Potion in a topical formulation?”
Shiloh felt her anxiety dissipate as Penn began to speak in a soft, shy voice, and as Jonn patiently encouraged her to elaborate.
I can do this, Shiloh told herself.
I can do this.
***
“How do you find her, Jane?” Hatch asked.
The maid sat in the same chair Shiloh had occupied the previous evening, though Jane appeared somewhat less anxious, being much more accustomed to her fearsome master. Silas had discovered some years previous that the servant was far cleverer than she seemed at first glance, and he had employed that cleverness quite profitably every since. The nobility treated the staff as though they were pieces of furniture, and they were often careless with their words.
“I find her most kind and agreeable, Master Hatch,” Jane replied. “Undemanding, sir. A bit sad and frightened, I’d wager.”
“Hmm. Has she asked for anything out of the ordinary?”
“No, sir. Except for a prayer cupboard. I found her a spare. She was thrilled, in spite of it bein’ scuffed and worn. Her face lit up. She seems awful innocent for this place, Master Hatch.”
“That she does,” he replied. “That she does seem.”
“You think she’s puttin’ on an act?” Jane asked.
“I sometimes think so. But perhaps not.”
“Is it true, what everyone is saying about last night? Did the queen really make her dance in front of everyone?” Jane asked, eyes wide. “All by herself? Like a harlot?”
“Yes. I advise you to avoid gossiping about our dear queen,
Jane. It’s bad for one’s health.”
“Yes, Master Hatch.”
***
Shiloh’s first day of tutorial had gone surprisingly well. Master Jonn struck her as a knowledgable and personable teacher, and certainly easier to please than Edmun had ever been. She smiled a little, thinking of kind, gentle Miss Warwick. Maybe I can make a friend here after all.
Her solitary midday meal behind her, Shiloh now stood before the entrance to the library. Hopeful, she pushed open the massive door and inhaled the comforting aroma of leather and old paper.
“Oh,” she sighed in delight. She took in the tall, three-story space. Long mahogany tables staked their claim to the center of the main level, surrounded by row upon row of matching shelves eight feet tall. Beyond the center workspace, she could see a door propped open in the back. It presumably led to an office.
Two mezzanine levels perched above, filled with more books, reachable by a spiral staircase with a shining brass banister that stood watch in the corner. Ladders attached to a rail system waited along the walls of the main level, where books reached fifteen feet into the air before running into the lower mezzanine. To her surprise, she saw no one perusing the shelves, nor anyone studying at a table. The place seemed quite deserted.
Shiloh made her way to the office, determined not to be distracted by the temptation that surrounded her. She rapped lightly on the door, calling out a soft, “Hello?”
“What the hell do you want?” a voice snapped. It had come from behind a veritable wall of books piled upon a desk that sagged under its burden.
“Forgive me, Master, for disturbing you, but the Matron assigned me to work for you some afternoons. My name is Shiloh Teethborn,” she explained.
An irritated face popped up from behind its literary citadel to complain, “You tell that old cow to stop sending me her troublemakers for punishment! They damage my books and waste my time!” He blew a lock of graying blond hair out of his eyes and set his glare upon her.